


Sweetheart, What Have You Done To Us?

by johnwatso



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Pining John, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 03, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Suicidal Thoughts, depersonalisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2655953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/pseuds/johnwatso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by "what ifs", this is the story of how things may have played out if John took the opportunity to tell Sherlock that he loved him before the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Sweetheart, what have you done to us?_  
>  I turned my back and you turned to dust  
> What have you done?  
> And oh please, just come here, don't fight with me  
> And I admit, think you may have broken it, yeah I admit  
> And if all you wanted was songs for you  
> Well here goes, after all that you've put me through  
> Here's one for you  
> And don't call me lover, it's not enough  
> It's got to be tough, cynical stuff  
> Follow my words to the end of our love  
> And God, you were the one who told me not to be  
> So English  
> Sweetheart, what have you done to our love?
> 
>  
> 
> _[Keaton Henson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MCNtWKdi5Ds) _

_You can’t fall in love with him._

That’s one of the first things he tells himself every morning. Has done since he moved in with Sherlock six years ago. It works the same now as it did then - barely.

———

The way it happened was so… straightforward. John knew how he felt for a long while, and he barely had time to admit it to himself before Sherlock knew, too. He thought he knew. They didn’t speak about it much. Still don’t.

It was chilly in Dartmoor that evening. Frankland was stopped, the mystery solved, but the adrenaline was still coursing through their veins. Well, that and the drug. 

The heat was on in their hotel room, but neither of them could warm up. It was as though, when their blood froze with the terrors of the moor, it never thawed out. Sherlock was on edge, his usual post-case placidity lost in the hallucinations. John didn’t ask him what he’d seen out there on the moor; why he yelled out, “It’s not you! You’re not here!” but he could guess. The threat of Moriarty had been looming, a mist not unlike Frankland’s, following them everywhere, through every case. The last they had heard about him was indirectly, through Irene Adler, but it was enough to remind them that he was around and he still meant to make good on his threats. Sherlock would never have admitted it, of course, but he was afraid. John thought that, for once in his life, he had something to lose. John liked to think that he contributed to that somewhat, but he didn’t want to flatter himself. It’s not as though Sherlock ever said as much.

Sherlock looked at John at some point, his eyes taking on a fragile quality that was missed during his little freak-out the previous evening. Somehow, John knew what it meant. It was all so comfortably simple. When he lay awake at night, he used to imagine how it may happen, if it ever did - he wasn’t holding out hope. He’d imagine it would happen after a heart-racing chase through London, similar to the one on that first night, when Sherlock cured him of his limp. He imagined that he’d look at him and Sherlock would look back, their hearts racing, and the passion and epinephrine surging through them would obliterate that final barrier. In John’s fantasies, he’d crush his mouth against Sherlock’s and he’d maybe hesitate for a split second before reciprocating. He’d push him against the wall, right there in the hallway, at the bottom of the steps where they laughed together on that first night, and he’d be pliant yet intense, and it would be hot breath and muffled groans and quick, hard jerks.

The way it actually happened was softer, less like an electric shock and more like dripping honey. And, like honey, it was sweet and slow and filled with a richness that even John’s most shameful fantasies could never portray. He barely saw that side of Sherlock before; the soft smile that reached his eyes, the whispered, dragged out murmurs. It was a side of him that John knew was private. He knew that not many people - if anyone - got to experience Sherlock like that. He appreciated and savoured every single second of it. John was so completely present through every stroke and kiss and tremble that he almost believed that it could always be that way. They fell asleep in his bed, finally calm and warm and wrapped up in each other. He remembers it now: his arm was numb at one point and it woke him up, but he didn’t want to move it, didn’t want to disturb Sherlock’s slumber. He just wanted him to stay, breathing against his throat; he wanted to maintain the fantasy for a little while longer.

Because looking back on it, that’s all it was - a fantasy. Sherlock couldn’t have felt the same. John read promises in the open-mouthed pecks Sherlock dotted along his jawline and chest, but he didn’t mean anything by it. John realised that soon enough, but it was nice to live in make-believe, just for a night. 

He woke up cold and alone in his bed. The shower was on and he knew Sherlock would be done at any second and he’d come out of the en suite and then he’d know for sure; he’d know if it was something he wanted to pursue, or if they were going to pretend that the previous night didn’t happen. He remembers - so vividly, as though he could reach out and touch that day, the duvet that still smelled of Sherlock, of their bodies - thinking that it would be fine either way. He tried to convince himself that he could ignore it, go on as friends, that one night was more than enough (he didn’t expect it to ever happen, so the fact that it did was spectacular enough, wasn’t it?), but his heart was throbbing out, _please, please, please_ on every beat.

Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom and his mask was back on. No more vulnerable eyes or murmuring lips. They went to breakfast and joked around as usual, spoke about the case, and it honestly felt as though it was a dream. For a second, John felt this dissociation he’d only ever felt when he was shot in Afghanistan. It felt like he was there with Sherlock, but wasn't truly present. Like living out their interactions through a veil.

Once they were back home, John resolved to stop thinking about it. If Sherlock could forget all about it - delete it, probably - then surely he could, too. He just had to want it enough. As much as he ached to, John had to register that he would never mould this man into more. He decided to accept it and let it lie. There weren’t any more girls or dates - that farce stopped before Baskerville, anyway - but he stopped expecting more, or even fantasising that there might ever even _be_ more.

A couple of weeks later, Sherlock surprised him by climbing into his bed in the middle of the night. They’d had a long, difficult day on a frustrating case. John didn’t even pause or question him, just took him into his arms and kissed him, cradling his face as though it was breakable. Even though he knew they wouldn’t discuss it in the morning, and that the bed on Sherlock’s side would be cold when he woke up, John couldn’t hold back. He couldn’t deny this to Sherlock if he was asked. His only grievance was that he didn’t have the opportunity to offer him more. Like in Dartmoor, there were no words, just tender kisses and touches. Running his hand down Sherlock’s naked side, John couldn’t help but feel, once again, as though the fantasy may continue on. And, when he woke up to a quiet apartment and an empty bed, John couldn’t help but feel, once again, as though he had been punched in the stomach.

And so it continued: Sherlock would sporadically visit John’s bed, they would pour their hearts into the intimacy and Sherlock would be gone by the time John woke up. They never discussed it or confessed anything or asked anything more of the other one. Any unease John felt about it was dismissed by telling himself that they’d get there; they had all the time in the world to figure it out.

Only they didn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

“We need to be more careful,” John told Sherlock after seeing the _confirmed bachelor John Watson_ in the paper. 

Sherlock feigned ignorance, even asked John why the thoughts of the public might upset _him._ John was growing weary of the lack of openness. They had slept together more than a handful of nights by this time and still hadn’t acknowledged it - not even in the safety of the dark, let alone the light of day. Although he would have liked to broach the subject, to see if something more could develop between them, John felt like he couldn’t. He didn’t want to scare Sherlock off, knowing his philosophies regarding sentiment and love. The problem was, John didn’t share those skewed convictions, and he knew that he loved Sherlock, even though he wasn’t supposed to. Waking up to a vacant bed just hours after being enveloped in Sherlock’s arms was painful, but John tried to convince himself that the alternative - not having him be there at all - was worse. At least, this way, he was allowed to touch Sherlock, to kiss him and convey his feelings through his actions.

Soon enough, Moriarty was back, making himself known in the most outlandish way possible and goading Sherlock into his game once again. Between the not guilty verdict and the fabrication of Richard Brooks, Moriarty was winning and John was terrified.

When Sherlock refused to go with him to see Mrs Hudson after she was “shot”, John should have realised that something was going on. John shouldn’t have called him a machine, he knows that now. He should have been able to see through it. This was the man, after all, that almost killed someone just for roughing her up a little bit.

In the months following that day, John wished and prayed and hoped that he could go back to that moment and stay with Sherlock or force Sherlock to go with him. He wished he could have done something - anything - differently. Been there when Sherlock had to face Moriarty on the rooftop.

As soon as John saw Sherlock on the roof, he felt sick. He knew that his friend was innocent. As he told Sherlock before, he knew him for real - nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time. Even as Sherlock stood on the edge of Bart’s roof and tried to convince John otherwise, John knew what and who he was and he knew he would never doubt it.

“Goodbye John,” Sherlock said into the phone and John’s heart felt like it stopped.

“No. Don’t,” John replied, feeling useless, unable to grip Sherlock from down on the street. “Please Sherlock. I love you.”

John hadn’t meant to say it, but it was true and he thought that maybe it could prevent Sherlock from following through with his stupid, unacceptable plan.

Pure panic and a numb dissociation passed over John as he watched Sherlock hesitate for just the briefest of moments at John’s confession, throw his phone and fall.

Thinking back on that day, John is able to piece together a couple of snapshots: the bicycle, the blood, the pulse that wasn’t there. All just insignificant bits of a greater picture that, when left fragmented, mean nothing, but put together, form the most devastating event in John’s life.

Going to war, being shot, getting dumped, being rejected - all things that were more tolerable than Sherlock not being alive anymore. In John’s mind, the moment Sherlock fell from the top of Bart’s is the anti-shot: similar in its gravity and blow, but opposite in effect. Being shot was noisy; there was panic and chaos, John’s body was rebelling. Seeing Sherlock’s lifeless body on the pavement was quiet and still, causing John’s mind the rebellion in his mind instead. He felt as though he was watching the scene from a seat in the back row of a theatre, far away from his own body and reflexes.

In fact, John was on depersonalised autopilot for months after. He was merely existing, with nothing to actively live for.

Every time he closed his eyes before he slept, he saw Sherlock’s vacant eyes. He saw them when his eyes were open, too - in his scrambled eggs, in the sky when he sat in the park for hours on end, forgetting to go home and live, in the faces of anyone he tried to become friendly with. He spent hours agonising over the last time him and Sherlock made love - the night before Moriarty’s trial - and how open Sherlock had seemed (or so John thought), how he looked at John in the mirror the next morning as he buttoned up his jacket; the same look he gave him that night in Dartmoor, before they first became intimate.

For the first time, John wished he had never shared a bed with Sherlock. If he could have taken it back, he would have. Taken back the ardent kisses and delicate touches. The biting and sucking and groaning. All of it. Because fuck what everyone said; John knew that it _wasn’t_ better to love and lose than never love at all. Even though he loved Sherlock before he slept with him, he could have kept that part of himself repressed, only for himself to examine and contemplate when all the lights were off and London was at its stillest.

He knew that his friends were concerned and that he was pushing people away - he had barely spoken to Mrs Hudson in months - but, before he met Mary, John couldn’t even pretend to care about being alive. His dreams were either of warm skin - Sherlock’s - or a warm gun. One shot was all it would take. John knew this, and he was saving it, waiting for the day when his apathy would subside and allow him to finally pull the trigger. The day when he could no longer find solace in the bottom of a bottle.

The misery that enveloped every part of him was too much for John to cope with, hence the autopilot. The human brain has a brilliant way of protecting itself, of sheltering us from the desperation our trauma leaves us with. We are able to dissociate from the world around us so that we can go on living, even though the life we have is more like half a life, like looking at a beautiful lover with one eye or listening to your favourite song with one earphone in.

John accepted a job as a GP at a modest clinic and carried on. His autopilot guided him through it all, and he was slowly building a satisfactory life for himself. The most he could hope for, John knew, was this. A job, a place to live, food to eat. There was nothing more to expect or even yearn for, not after Sherlock was in the ground.

It was in this state that he met Mary, a pretty, smiling nurse. John could see two paths in front of him after just one date: one road offered an escalation of his ordinary new life - an attractive wife, a few featureless friends, a simple job and maybe a few kids; the other was more like a glimpse into his recent past - the allure of his Browning, the hole in his existence ever-expanding, his pain unrelenting, suffocating. It was an easy choice to make. Mary was pretty. Mary was interesting and funny. She loved to laugh and had lots of stories to tell. She never pressured him to move on, just held his hand when he visited Sherlock’s grave. She never questioned their relationship or expected him to tell her. Mary was safe and warm and alive, and that’s exactly what John needed.


	3. Chapter 3

Like everything he did, Sherlock stepped back into John’s life in the most outrageous way possible. In his wildest daydreams, when he held onto the stage of grief they call Denial and imagined that Sherlock might not be dead, John never thought he would turn up that way; make a joke out of it. The moment he saw him, John wanted to _destroy_ him. Every bit of rage he had ever felt in his life felt like it had culminated into a ball of hot energy and had to get out of him. When he pushed Sherlock to the ground, though, he felt as though he’d rather be kissing him, fucking him, touching him. Like they used to.

But things were different. There was Mary. There was two years of betrayal. And, although John liked to suppress this violently, there was a love declaration that was never returned; rejected in the harshest way possible.

When John finally did forgive Sherlock, he allowed himself to feel relieved. Of course he was relieved that Sherlock was alive. He had forgiven (or tried to, anyway), but he was still aching inside. Above all things, John wished things could be any way but the way that they were. He wished Sherlock had never left, or had taken him with. He wished Sherlock had said, “I love you, too,” and met him on the pavement. He wished Sherlock had returned before he proposed to Mary. 

Because, the truth was, before Sherlock wasn’t dead anymore, John’s life was fine. Satisfactory. He was content. Mary was loving, loveable. His life with her could have been a good one. He could have married her, loved her with everything that was left of him and made her happy for the rest of their lives. With Sherlock back, though, John didn’t know how to do that anymore. It was like he was a drug addict and had lived in a world with no drugs for the past two years and was doing fine; no temptation. Introduce drugs back into the world and he was itching for his next fix. No longer could his future with Mary seem like an acceptable way to spend his time. He still loved her, sure, but with Sherlock in the picture, she would always be second fiddle, and John felt truly ashamed of that. Ashamed and furious. At Sherlock, of course. For making all of the guilt and hurt and hunger a daily reality.

Thankfully, Sherlock never said anything about John’s last words to him. It was as though that part of their history, of them, was erased. If John really went along with Sherlock’s facade, he could almost believe it, believe that they never held each other tight while the rest of London slept and never ignored the dried evidence of their activities in favour of falling asleep together. Sometimes John wished he could bring it up nonchalantly - ‘Um, Sherlock, remember we used to shag sometimes and never discuss it and I told you I loved you before you faked your suicide and made me watch? Can we just resolve that?’ - but he knew there was no way of doing so. He reminded himself almost every day that Sherlock was, first and foremost, his best friend, and that was something he wasn’t willing to lose. Not ever again.

Sherlock was surprisingly brilliant at helping plan the wedding, caring about details that John didn’t even know existed. He taught John to dance in the privacy of 221B, which was difficult. As soon as they held each other, John wanted to cry. As though his oppressed feelings were going to burst out.

“John, you need to loosen up. You can’t be so stiff,” Sherlock said to him. 

John noticed that he was grinding his teeth. He tried not to be so rigid, but was afraid that if he let himself go, he’d make a mistake, fracture the fragile masquerade that they had chosen to adopt.

“John,” Sherlock moaned again, “Stop being so -"

“Stop being so what?” John snapped, pulling apart abruptly. He was trembling from the restraint. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, analysing John’s every movement. John didn’t know what he saw, but he didn’t have the strength to care at that moment.

“Sherlock. Not today,” John felt tired, weighed down by pretending. His mouth was creating sound, but he felt very far away. “I can’t do this today.”

“Do what?” Sherlock said, his brow creasing further.

John ran a hand over his eyes and face, shaking his head in frustration.

“John,” Sherlock moved closer to him, lowering his voice, “Do what?”

“I think… I think you know perfectly well… I can’t.” John lifted his hand, as in surrender, avoiding Sherlock’s scrutiny. He turned to leave, his mind on escape. 

Sherlock grabbed his arm and twisted him so that he had nowhere to go or to look.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was low, warning, “Sherlock just let me go. I can’t…”

“Yes, John, you keep saying that. _Can’t_. What does that _mean_?” he emphasised the last word in exasperation - he never liked not being one step ahead.

“I can’t do _this_!” John exploded, gesturing vaguely between them. “Pretending to be fine. To be friends. I’m just exhausted!”

Sherlock’s mouth parted slightly, his brow straightening out, he looked hurt and confused.

“Sherlock… Before you left, I… Before you _died_ , things were… complicated. I’m sure you remember. Unless you’ve deleted it.” As soon as John said it, fear ran through him. _Had_ Sherlock deleted it? That would make a lot of sense. He must have looked horrified, because Sherlock interjected quickly.

“No. Never. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t delete it, John.”

“I know we never discussed it and, believe me, I’d like nothing more than to _not_ be having this conversation right now, but… sometimes I feel as though I made it all up. Like I created what happened between us. Another romanticised fiction for my blog.”

Sherlock kept silent, his eyes on the ground. After a long while, John couldn’t tolerate the awkward silence anymore.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’ll be fine. Tomorrow. Or another day. I’m just tired. All the planning.”

He turned around, put his coat on and walked out into the street. 

_Idiot idiot idiot_. Even as he berated himself on every step, he still half expected Sherlock to run out into Baker street, beg him not to go. Unsurprisingly, he never did.

———

John’s stag night - the first time he actually spoke to Sherlock since their awkward dance lesson - was filled with nuances and flirting. He decided to go with it and relaxed into the warmth and courage that the whiskey provided him.

What began as a terribly strained evening was turning out to be quite interesting. They were both loose, open.

In the middle of their silly game, John fell forward on his seat, grabbing Sherlock’s knee. His hand felt as though it was buzzing. He looked up at Sherlock, gauging his reaction.

“I don’t mind,” he shrugged.

Sherlock shrugged in kind, giggling. God, John hadn’t seen him giggle in years. It felt so good. So _right._

John stretched out his feet, placing them next to Sherlock’s legs. _Maybe this could go further. Maybe…_

Before anything more could happen, Mrs Hudson interrupted with a case and it felt as though someone had doused John in cold water. _Mary. Mary. Mary._

———

“… So know this - today, you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved. In short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”

John could feel his eyes welling up. Never had he imagined that Sherlock would say anything remotely sentimental in his speech, let alone tell a room full of people, John included, that he loved him.

Luckily, he wasn’t alone in his tears - most of the guests were sniffling, too. And Sherlock, in his endearing oblivion said, “What’s wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John? Did I do it wrong” and John couldn’t help but stand up and hug him - “No you didn’t. Come here.” John knew that he often served as Sherlock’s social compass, directing him in all things etiquette. He told Sherlock when his responses were _a bit not good_ or when to thank someone for a gift he didn’t appreciate. 

In that moment, though, John couldn’t help but be charmed by his clueless friend, so worried he’d done something wrong when what he had just done was _so right_. 

The hug was stiff and awkward, with Sherlock not reciprocating, caught off guard, but John didn’t mind. He was just glad that he was able to hold him, even briefly. The entire day had passed in a blur and John, as was his way by now, had experienced most of it through a cloudy haze, his brain detaching from all the moments that were meant to be significant. He had barely said three words to Sherlock the entire day. The wedding was beautiful, he knew, but he couldn’t help but feel a sadness. Marrying Mary meant that the road where any possibilities between him and Sherlock led had officially disappeared. Not that Sherlock had indicated that they may ever walk down that road; it was mostly John’s wishful thinking, alone in the dark.

Undeniably now, though, his life with Mary was the one he had chosen. To John, that meant that even the possibility _of_ a possibility was no more. Sherlock and him would never share a bed again or huddle closer while they thought the other was asleep or leave sloppy kisses on each other’s throats. The future ahead consisted solely of John and Mary. And Sherlock. His friend. Best friend, yes, but nothing more. Never anything more.


	4. Chapter 4

The 1970s dance song was playing and all was meant to be perfect. John couldn’t help but feel like Esther Greenwood in _The Bell Jar - I was supposed to be having the time of my life_ \- only he was a near middle-aged man and he knew he wasn’t destined to become celebrated in his melancholy.

Sherlock revealed to John and Mary that they were expecting a child and it made sense - the symptoms John had been denying for a little while. He clapped his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck, desperate to be grounded in the moment. The smile on his friend’s face didn’t linger and John felt as though he had been stabbed. It took a moment, but he finally controlled his expression and remembered to dance with his wife. To have a good time, or at least pretend to.

He noticed Sherlock slip out while they were dancing and knew that he was leaving. His coat, his gait, it all said goodbye. John looked around at the crowd while he danced with Mary and suddenly felt a rise of panic surging. He felt like he didn’t know anybody, like he was trapped in a dream and he couldn’t wake up.

“You okay?” Mary asked him, turning his head to face her.

“Hmm? Yeah. Yeah… just need some air.” John gave her a reassuring squeeze on her arm, a brief smile that never reached his eyes and he went outside.

After a few minutes of breathing exercises and telling himself that he was fine, he decided to text Sherlock.

_Where did you get to?_

Sherlock didn’t reply, so John sent another.

_Why did you leave? I needed you to stay._

John tried to focus on his ribs expanding while he breathed and conceded that Sherlock wouldn’t be responding to any of his texts. He decided to phone him.

“John?” Sherlock answered, and John breathed out a sigh of relief. How was it that just hearing his voice made him feel so immediately better?

“Hi,” John responded and his voice cracked slightly as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to give his panic away.

“Are you alright?” The concern in his friend’s voice made John huff out a breath, as though he’d been punched in the stomach. “John?”

“Yeah. ‘mfine.”

“Ok…”

“Ok.”

The silence dragged on, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. John listened to Sherlock breathing on the other end and he felt like he was communicating with him, saying, _I’m scared and I wish you were here but I know that’s not possible right now._

John was beginning to calm down, breathing in time with Sherlock over the phone.

“Goodnight John.”

“Goodnight Sherlock.”

Neither of them hung up the phone, listening to the other breathe for a couple more minutes. Eventually, Mary called from the door: “John? What are you doing?”

Before he could say anything more, Sherlock hung up, doubtless having heard Mary calling for him.

John straightened his chest out - soldier mode - and nodded to himself. He could do this. He didn’t need his friend to hold his hand through his own wedding, for god’s sake. This was what he kept thinking as he made it through the rest of the evening, faces and congratulations blurring together until he felt almost dizzy with his detachment.

———

All through their honeymoon, Mary forced John into activities he had absolutely zero interest in - cocktails, dancing, day trips on boats. The vacation was mostly a blur with an overarching feeling of dread - _is this going to be the rest of my life?_ \- for John.

Sherlock posted on his blog and John commented, wishing his friend would actually respond to his texts. Spending days on the beach consisted mostly of John staring out into the ocean, wondering if he was missing any exciting cases.

When their honeymoon was finally over, John was more than happy to be home, but the dread followed him there, too. Sharing a bed with Mary was stifling. It wasn’t like John to feel so caged in while in a relationship. In the past, and even with Mary before Sherlock returned, he was good at relationships. Sure, he had never been married, but he knew it wasn’t supposed to feel the way that it did. And the worst part about the whole thing was that Mary didn’t even seem to notice John’s detachment and disinterest. He was completely apathetic about every aspect of their home life.

A month had passed since the wedding and Sherlock hadn’t tried to contact John at all. Hadn’t been ‘round with a new case. Hadn’t texted to tell John about a new discovery of his. John had tried to speak to him a few times, but there are only so many unanswered texts that he could send before it was time to give up.

One morning, John and Mary’s neighbour came in, upset about her missing son. John decided to pounce on the chance to be rid of his cabin fever and go to the drug den and retrieve him. He didn’t even have it in him to be irritated by Mary’s insisted accompaniment.

Once in the rundown house, John felt his body come alive in an altercation with a smackhead. Sherlock knew it before John did - “I said 'dangerous', and here you are” - and Mycroft even before that - “You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it”. John tried to deny his danger kink for a long time, but it became abundantly clear the more cases he worked on with Sherlock. 

John briefly wondered - for the millionth time - what Sherlock was doing and why he hadn’t called him while he found Isaac. He didn’t have to wonder much longer, though, as Sherlock surprised John by being in the very next bed. High. As far as John knew, he had never seen Sherlock high. He was vigilant during any and all ‘danger nights’ before the fall, but nothing had ever come of them.

He insisted on taking Sherlock straight to St Bart’s to have Molly test him, even though he knew what the results were. When Molly confirmed it, he texted Mycroft to let him know. He knew that Sherlock would be infuriated by that, but John needed to be sure that Sherlock’s stash at 221B wasn’t there when he returned home.

John was right - Sherlock was majorly pissed off by Mycroft’s presence - not to mention the presence of his fan club scouring the kitchen for drugs. He curled himself into his chair and looked utterly miserable. John only had a moment to find the sight of Sherlock’s long body squeezed into his armchair endearing before noticing that his own armchair was absent. 

“Hey, what happened to my chair?” John asked him, feeling utterly betrayed in a way he couldn’t even begin to understand or explain.

“It was blocking my view to the kitchen,” came Sherlock’s reply.

John hated that something so petty and insignificant upset him. Sherlock probably moved his chair for the practical reasons he gave, but John felt like it was Sherlock’s way of moving on. While John knew he had no right to feel upset - he was the one who was married and living somewhere else - he still felt as though Sherlock had kicked him out of his life for good.

And then. Seeing Janine come out of Sherlock’s bedroom felt like someone was pressing acidic lemon juice into a raw wound. She came out in Sherlock’s shirt, utterly unconcerned about the effect seeing her like that may have on John. Struggling through the entire transaction, John felt as though he had entered into one of his nightmares. Janine. Coming out of Sherlock’s bedroom. Wearing his shirt and seemingly nothing else. Calling him silly nicknames. And then… going into the bathroom where Sherlock was bathing.

John felt physically ill at that point. Sherlock was laughing and murmuring something while Janine squealed and water splashed. All the while, John’s stomach was arguing with the rest of his body. He was torn between being distraught and incensed. It was looking a lot like Sherlock _did_ do relationships. Just not with him. John tried to control his breathing and plastered on a courteous expression while Janine spoke about how well she knew Sherlock and the dinner they would all have in the future. Sherlock even kissed her while John was in the very same room. By the time Sherlock focused his attention back to him, John felt numb. For a change, he took comfort in his dissociation. This was something he didn’t feel like he was prepared to deal with. He had told Sherlock that he loved him and Sherlock had left him anyway. He comforted himself with the belief that Sherlock was married to his work. Seeing him with someone else made it clear that it was _him_ that Sherlock didn’t want, and nothing had ever felt so brutally heartbreaking.

Struggling through the rest of the conversation, John hoped that he wasn’t being too transparent. The last thing he needed was for Sherlock to deduce his heartache. The last remaining thing that John actually had was his pride, and he wasn’t willing to give that up.

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, which almost drove the nail deeper into the coffin.


	5. Chapter 5

Lying in the hospital bed, pale, eyelashes forming soft shadows over sharp cheekbones, Sherlock looked so beautifully defenceless and damaged. He had pulled through and this was the first moment John had been able to have alone with him. The morphine was still dulling him and he was asleep for the time being, but John was grateful just to be able to hear his heart monitor beeping regularly after he had almost left him again.

John scooted his chair closer to the bed and took one of Sherlock’s large hands in both of his. He dipped his head, bowing over his friend’s sleeping frame.

“If you had gone…” he was struggling to be open, even though he was whispering, even though Sherlock couldn’t hear him. “… If you had died on me. Again. Sherlock. I’d have. Hm. I’d have died. I would. I would have died this time, too.”

John gave his hand a final squeeze before pulling himself together and going to meet Mary in the coffee shop downstairs.

———

John’s chair was back in its place, but the bottle of Claire de la Lune on the table next to it told an even worse story and he never liked the smell of it, anyway.

———

“SHUT UP!” John was furious. Not just about Mary, but about everything. His entire life. Sherlock not loving him back. Being fooled into grieving for two years. Marrying the wrong person. Being fooled once again. “And stay shut up, because this is not funny. Not this time.” 

“I didn’t say it was funny,” Sherlock responded, but John was too busy being consumed by his white-hot fury, fuelling him on when he otherwise would have given up.

“You,” he asked Mary, “What have I ever done? Hmm? My whole life. To deserve you?”

“Everything,” came Sherlock’s reply and John could have throttled him.

“Sherlock, I’ve told you… Shut up.”

“I mean it. Seriously. Everything you’ve ever done is what you did.”

“Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine.” John’s voice was soft and steady, the antithesis of his inner disquiet.

“You were a doctor who went to war. You’re a man who couldn’t stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That’s me, by the way. Hello,” Sherlock raised his hand. “John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people. So is it truly such a surprise that the woman you’ve fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?”

John felt a stab at Sherlock’s words, worse because they were true and he desperately didn’t want them to be. He didn’t want Mary to be Sherlock’s replacement.

He fought back tears as he answered Sherlock, “But she wasn’t supposed to be like that.” He pointed at Mary, “Why is _she_ like that?” and the implication was clear - why is _Mary_ like that, too? Why is the woman who was meant to comfort me when you left me the same as you? Why did she have to be the same way? I couldn’t handle it from you, how am I supposed to handle it from her; especially when I don’t love her as much as I could ever love you?

“Because you chose her.”

Sherlock’s response hit John in the chest. He stared Sherlock down, silently communicating his fury: _how could you say that to me after everything? How could you blame me after everything you put me through?_

“Why is everything. Always. MY FAULT?!” John kicked the table next to Sherlock’s chair as he raised his voice, pure rage seeping out of him. If he could have, he would have taken it out on Sherlock instead. Or himself. It didn’t even matter.

Sherlock spewed a story about how Mary was to be trusted, about how shooting Sherlock was “surgery”. All it did was anger John further - Sherlock’s insistence on him forgiving Mary felt like yet another betrayal. Why was Sherlock so eager to push him into Mary’s arms - even after he had been betrayed? Did it not matter that this woman had been lying to him? Did John not deserve better?

As Sherlock collapsed onto the rug of 221B, John glared at Mary, wishing every hateful thing he had in him to think. Sherlock told him to trust her, but how could he? He was seething. After everything that Mary had seen him go through when he lost Sherlock the first time, she tried to take him away from him again. John knew that he could never forgive her for that. 

———

Two days later, John felt calm enough to visit Sherlock in the hospital. He was stable, but it would be a long road to recovery, especially after he made his injuries that much worse with his recent escapade.

He knocked on the hospital door and Sherlock looked at him. John saw the worry in his eyes, but he didn’t have it in him to appease it just yet.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, walking over to pick up Sherlock’s charts for a quick scan.

“Mm. Better. Morphine helps.”

John lifted his eyes for a brief moment to regard Sherlock, who was chewing his top lip pensively, eyes on the bed.

“I’m still pissed off, you know,” he told him, deciding to get it all out rather than maintain an awkward air of feigned composure for the rest of their time together.

“I know. I’m. I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock met his eyes, and John could see that he was genuine. No tricks. Well, none that he could pick up on. John knew he clearly wasn’t adept at picking up on the deception of others.

“S’okay,” John sniffed.

“No it’s not.”

“No. You’re right. It’s not. How long did you know that my wife was a liar?” John was struggling to stay calm, his voice turning dangerously aggravated.

“I didn’t know. Or I didn’t want to know…”

“Yeah, ‘course not.”

Sherlock looked at him questioningly, his brow creasing in the middle, as it always did when he was struggling to read a situation.

“‘Course you didn’t want to know about her. It would’ve made it that much more difficult to push me away, wouldn’t it? Or could you have looked the other way and let me marry her anyway?” John’s left hand was shaking, and he didn’t even bother concealing it. Not this time.

“John, I -“

“No. You don’t get to make excuses. You don’t get to speak because most of what you say isn’t true anyway. I’m _sick_ of being lied to. I’m _sick of it,_ ” John, as was his way, was able to convey his rage without even raising his voice. Always able to detach from his inner turmoil.

Sherlock kept quiet, shifting his eyes to stare at the bed, as though something vital could be found there, a clue as to how to fix their situation. Fix them.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, huffing out sharply, trying to control his breathing. He knew it had been a bad idea to visit Sherlock. Especially so soon after finding out about Mary. He just… He needed to see him. Needed his anchor through it all.

“Look, I hope you feel better. I’ll be by soon,” John turned around to leave, desperate to escape before his anger could harm either of them any more.

“John…” Sherlock said softly.

John didn’t turn around. “Yes?”

“I hope you will. Be by soon.”

John’s heart felt a distinct squeeze at that. Sherlock barely ever laid his vulnerability or wants bare. Nodding once, John left without another word.


	6. Chapter 6

John was sitting on his bed back at Baker Street, his legs curled under him. Sherlock’s head was on his lap and he was running his hands through his friend’s hair. 

“Don’t go. Please don’t go,” he whispered to Sherlock, leaning down close to press a soft, dry kiss on his forehead.

Sherlock didn’t respond. He only sighed and rubbed his head across John’s lap, like a cat marking its favourite things.

“I wish you could just stay this time,” John said, and nuzzled his cheek into Sherlock’s, closing his eyes as he breathed him in. He smelled like comfort.

“I know,” Sherlock said simply. There was nothing else to say. He had to leave. But maybe…

“Will you stay?”

Sherlock ignored him and suddenly, John realised that his forehead - the place he had been pressing little kisses - was wet with blood. John leaned back to look at Sherlock’s eyes and when he saw that they were open and unmoving, he shook him.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John was frantic now, checking for a pulse that he knew wouldn’t be there.

John woke up with a jerk. Always the same dream. Always the same heartache. Just like real life. He wished he could dream of pleasant things, that his brain would take him on a slumbering vacation through the streets of Paris or on a yacht somewhere near Portofino or an open safari truck in the middle of Maasai Mara. Anywhere but London, where he lived through every day without even wanting to.

It had been a week since he had seen Sherlock in the hospital. He didn’t want to deal with it. John wanted to rather live out his days in a whiskey-laden haze on Harry’s couch, where he’d been staying since Mary revealed herself. Although Harry wasn’t sober, John still felt guilt at drowning his sorrows in her house, for not being the good influence he always tried to be. His guilt, however, didn’t drive him to action or repentance. Waves of self-pity will do that to a person.

John knew that he’d have to face reality some day soon. Face Sherlock and Mary and his life. But with every day that passed, he indulged himself further, allowing his melancholy to excuse his behaviour.

He didn’t find resolution at the bottom of his bottles, but he did find comfort, and that was all he needed. Just some comfort. Just for a little while.

——— 

The beginning of October seemed to shift something in John. The autumn brought golden leaves and a lighter heart for him. He decided it was time to stop wallowing - at least on Harry’s couch. Having not seen Sherlock in over two weeks, John knew that he might not be welcome, but he decided to chance it anyway: he packed up what little of his things that he had taken from his house and caught a taxi to Baker Street. It was only when he arrived at the door that he began to feel strange about it. He knew that Sherlock was still in the hospital, and he didn’t know if it was appropriate for him to be there.

 Sighing, John decided to let himself in and deal with the consequences after. He needed to get away from Harry’s depressing flat. Away from his own mind. Although Sherlock wouldn’t be well enough to do legwork anytime soon, John thought that perhaps Lestrade might have offered them some cold case files - anything to distract him.

Once he settled in, John decided to go visit Sherlock. He had heard from Mycroft that his recovery was going well, and that he was insistent on going home sooner rather than later.

John drifted through the hospital corridor in a haze, nervous to see Sherlock. He felt guilty for blaming everything on him and for not visiting him, but, while everything that had happened wasn’t _technically_ Sherlock’s fault, John couldn’t help but feel as though it was all a result of him leaving, of him lying.

When he reached the room, Sherlock was sitting in the chair next to the bed, reading the newspaper. He rapped on the door gently, making his appearance known.

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock said quietly, his voice cold and his eyes never leaving the paper.

“Erm. Morning. How are you feeling?” John didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he stuffed them into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels slightly.

“Better,” Sherlock flipped a page and continued scanning, “Going home soon.”

“Yeah, I know, Mycroft said.”

Sherlock ignored him, so John decided to struggle on.

“Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t been by. It’s been. Well, it’s been hard, Sherlock. Really hard. I’ve been staying at Harry’s.”

“As if I didn’t know that.”

John huffed out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding, a small smile lighting his face. “Right. As if you didn’t know that. Anyway, I wanted to know if it would be fine if. If I stayed at the flat. Just for a while. Until we figure everything out with Mary.”

Sherlock lifted his eyes for the first time since John arrived and looked at him quizzically.

“Of course it’s fine,” he said simply and continued to read.

“Right. Thanks.” Another rock on his heels. “Right. Can I get you anything?”

“I’m quite alright, John. I’ll be home by the end of the week. We will discuss Mary then.”

Although it was a dismissal if he ever heard one, John was still relieved to hear Sherlock utter the word ‘home’. Because, in reality, 221B Baker Street never stopped being his home. He didn’t even know what home _felt_ like before moving in there.

That night, John went to bed without any help from his bottle of whiskey.

———

Once Sherlock was well enough to leave the hospital, everything passed quietly in the flat. Things between them were slightly uncomfortable, but, for the most part, it was like neither of them had ever left: Sherlock complained about his lack of mobility while John complained about the disgusting experiments in the kitchen. They never mentioned Mary.

One night, John decided to look at the flash disk she had given him, fearing the worst - she had said that her entire past was on there, and John didn’t know if he had the stomach to see it all.

Sherlock was on the couch, seemingly in his mind palace, while John sat at the desk, opening his laptop. He inserted the disk, but nothing came up. Frustrated, John pulled it out and put it back in three more times before slamming it on the table.

“It’s empty,” Sherlock surprised him by speaking.

“Wha- How d’you know?” John looked at him. He was lying across the couch, his hands steepled under his milky jaw. A tiny sliver of his hipbone was peeking out of his dressing gown. John had an inexplicable urge to kiss it, find some solace in it.

“I knew since the moment she gave it to you, John. Why would a former assassin carry around a flash drive with incriminating information on it? And, most importantly of all, why would she just _give_ it to you?” Sherlock’s voice softened on the last question, as though he felt bad that he had to be bluntly honest, something he had never struggled with before.

John sighed and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, leaning on the desk.

“Okay,” he said, once he had composed himself. “Alright, Sherlock, tell me what we know about her.”

———

That night, John lay in bed, thinking about his situation. Sherlock had told him that Mary was hired by Moriarty’s second-in-command to keep an eye on John, and that Mycroft thinks that she fell for him along the way. According to the Holmes brothers, she didn’t appear to be dangerous, but she was very good at covering her footsteps, as was evidenced by their lack of knowledge about her identity before she shot Sherlock.

All through Sherlock’s impromptu report, John felt a rage bubbling inside him that he knew he couldn’t control for a long time. A rage at having been used and lied to. A rage not dissimilar to the one he felt after Sherlock’s return. As soon as there was a break in the conversation, John nodded once and went up to his bedroom. He closed the door and opened his dresser, moving his clothing aside to find his bottle of whiskey. When he couldn’t find it, he knew that Sherlock had taken it, and he was even more enraged. The worst part was that he couldn’t confront Sherlock about it, because then they’d have to discuss the fact that he had a secret stash of alcohol in his bedroom.

John flung himself onto the bed and screamed into his pillow, but it did little to help. He tried to summon the knowledge of every breathing exercise he could, but those didn’t help, either. Feeling like he was floating, John was at a loss. His anxiety and anger was at a new high, even for him. In a desperate, intense haze of hollowness, John pulled at his hair, hard. He felt as though he was floating at the bottom of a swimming pool, and the sharp tug of pain might help him surface, even briefly. When that didn’t work, he bit into his bottom lip, breaking the skin, tasting blood. It stung, but he felt a small respite. He repeated the process three more times, making sure to push down as hard as he could possibly stand it. He knew his lip was bloodied, but he didn’t care. The metallic taste flooding his mouth felt like such a victory that he hadn’t even realised that he was crying.

Exhausted, he turned out the light and decided to sleep early, thinking of nothing but Moriarty and blood.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock crept into his room in the middle of the night. Although he made no noise, John instinctively  _knew_ he was there and opened his eyes. He creeped over and climbed into John’s bed. Then, with no hesitation whatsoever, he pulled John towards him and kissed him passionately. John kissed him back as though it was the most normal thing - as though they did it all the time.

This time, when he woke up, it wasn’t with relief. He wished he could have the Sherlock of that dream: soft, accommodating and comforting. He missed the intimacy he had with Sherlock, even though it was brief and, by his estimation, mostly one-sided. 

In the moments where he shared a bed with Sherlock, he knew, without any doubt, that Sherlock had different sides to him: a jaded, frustrated side that had no patience for the world around him and a hushed, warm side that John hadn’t seen him show to anyone but him. John wished there was a way to recreate that, even without sleeping together. He had never felt as close to another person as he had to Sherlock, even though they didn’t speak or acknowledge their actions after, and he needed that - especially now.

He knew it wasn’t really possible though,  _especially_ given the current circumstances. Pregnant assassin wife who tried to murder your best friend? Complicates things a bit.

John went down to breakfast, berating himself for even thinking about any of that - he wished he could put their past, well, in the past, and leave it there. Thinking over it all only made him feel worse.

Sherlock was at the kitchen table already, fidgeting with his microscope and some slides that John knew he’d rather not know about until he had some food in him.

“Morning,” he muttered to him.

“Mo…” Sherlock started, but when he looked up, he stopped speaking, staring at John in enquiry.

John cocked his head to the side -  _what_? - and awaited the inevitable assault of deductions.

A quick intake of breath and a vague gesture towards his mouth was all Sherlock needed to do to remind John of his lip, which was probably a bit swollen and possibly still bloody. 

“Em. Accident,” John fumbled, bringing his fingers towards his mouth to cover it and escaping to the bathroom.

He assessed the damage in the mirror. It wasn’t too bad. A little red and swollen. John knew that if he lived with any other person, it would have gone unnoticed. Too bad he lived with the most inconveniently observant man on earth.

John washed his face and braved the kitchen again, desperate for his morning cuppa. Sherlock never said anything more about it and they carried on the morning in fairly affable silence. 

“Sherlock,” John addressed him in the early evening. “About Mary…”

Sherlock visibly tensed up a bit. He was lying across the sofa, his torso lifted up slightly by stacked pillows. John could barely make out his profile from where he sat, on his armchair.

“Obviously, I’m leaving her. I just… How dangerous is she?”

Sherlock twisted around, too eagerly, it seemed, because a flash of pain passed over his features before he settled again. He looked at John curiously, his eyes bright and probing. The crease between his brows was deepening by the second.

“What do you mean, ‘leaving her’? I told you: you can trust her. You’re perfectly safe, John. She - she loves you.”

“Sherlock. Why would I stay with someone who lied to me?” John was speaking calmly, but he didn’t feel it. 

Considering for a moment, Sherlock didn’t say anything, just pursed his lips in concentration.

“Alright. If you’re sure -“

“I’m sure.”

“…If you’re sure, then we’ll need a strategy. We still aren’t sure whether or not she has any links to Moriarty’s old network. We may need to keep her close. For the time being.”

“‘Close’?” John asked, already not liking the idea.

“I think… It might be best if you remained with her. At least for the time being. Especially… well, especially now that she's pregnant.”

“You think she might disappear?”

Sherlock shrugged in response.

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long do I have to play nice with her?”

“I don’t know. A few months. A few weeks. I really don’t have a solid estimate. Need more data.”

John sighed, pushing his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. He couldn’t imagine pretending to be fine with everything that Mary had done. At least not right that second.

“Alright. Alright. Your way. Just not now. Give me some time before I can. Before I have to face her again. Just. Let me have until Christmas.”

“Perfect. My parents have invited us over. Great place for a little reunion.”

John looked at Sherlock as though he’d gone mad, which was quite possible. Christmas? At his parents’? Together? He couldn’t quite help it - he found himself being warmed by the idea.

———

It had been a perfectly acceptable day, and yet John couldn’t help feeling the weight of everything he was going through while he tossed and turned in his bed. He checked the clock next to his bed. 1am. He had been trying to sleep for an hour and a half. His mind was running rampant, creating dimension upon dimension of blood-curdling possibilities for his future. Nerves were causing his chest to feel as though someone was sitting on it and his stomach to feel as though it was being twisted from the inside. He knew he needed to face Mary in little over a month and he didn’t know if he had the strength to do it without breaking down.

The stairs leading up to his room creaked. He knew it was Sherlock even before he opened his door. 

“Hmm?” John asked softly when Sherlock stood in the doorway for far too long.

“May I?” he whispered, and John could barely make out his tensed-up shoulders and stiff conduct.

John sat up in response. “Is your chest hurting?”

“No. I just…”

Understanding more than Sherlock probably realised, John pulled the duvet on the right side of his bed down in invitation.

Sherlock hesitated just a moment before slinking over and settling himself gently into John’s bed. John arranged some pillows behind him and Sherlock lay back, huffing out a breath as he did so.

He caught John's hand as he was pulling it away. They looked each other in the eyes, both assessing the mood, the possibilities, while Sherlock held him there, clasping his fingers together between his own.

“John,” he breathed out, letting go of John’s hand to cradle the back of his head.

John moved in closer, knowing what was needed. Before he could kiss Sherlock, though, he stilled him, dragging his thumb across his bottom lip.

“What happened to your lip, John?” he asked.

“S’nothing,” John shrugged.

Sherlock responded by kissing it delicately, pressing barely-there pecks along the surface, moving left to right and back again. When he seemed satisfied with that, he offered John a closed-mouth kiss on the lips. And again. And again.

John waited for him to peck him for a fourth time and parted his mouth slightly, inviting Sherlock further. Sherlock took the hint and, soon, they were kissing each other, softly. Intimately. Bathing in each other’s breath and warmth.

John’s chest felt like it was filling up with something so quickly that, if he didn’t control it, it would spill over and translate into tears. He felt relief. Relief and a sense of calm and  _presence_ that he hadn’t felt in years. It was as though Sherlock, simply by kissing him, was pulling him out of the water, letting him breathe and focus and  _exist_ in the way he was born to. 

Without meaning to, John huffed a silent sob into Sherlock’s mouth and his eyes began to prickle with unspilled tears.

“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock murmured and he kissed his way up John’s cheeks, collecting John’s tears and sadness for him. 

In a delicate manner that was mostly foreign to Sherlock, he undressed John, caressing his bare skin with every button he undid. John felt as though he was being cared for and pleaded with all at once.

With the same gentle, loving hands, Sherlock completely undid John, holding him close the entire time, pecking away at his tears.

John fell asleep snuggled up to Sherlock, feeling optimistic about what he had to face. As though his pain could now have meaning. 

If only Sherlock was next to him when he woke up, he might have gone on believing.


	8. Chapter 8

”Coming?” Sherlock asked him.

“ _Where_?” John was already exhausted and Christmas wasn’t even over. He had fed Mary the right story about not reading the flash drive and _is Mary Watson good enough for you_? even though he had to fight to force every word out. 

“Do you want your wife and child to be safe?”

John hesitated before replying, “Yeah, of course I do.”

Because he did. He did want them safe. No matter what Mary was, John still cared for her. And, of course, their child. After all the lying she had done, he knew that she cared about him, too. Even though he would never trust her again, John was still rooting for her, still hoping that she wasn’t lying about leaving her former profession behind her. So far, their search had come up empty, but Mycroft and Sherlock had insisted that they didn’t know for sure, and that Mary was likely to run if John abandoned her. Sherlock had been fierce in his insistence that they keep the child safe and in London. While John appreciated it, he wished he could handle things like a normal human being for once - by communicating clearly and honestly. He wanted to tell Mary the truth and deal with whatever fallout may follow, but Sherlock talked him out of it at every corner, insisting that John’s future daughter or son hung in the balance.

Before John knew what was happening, he was in Appledore, listening to Sherlock negotiate with the man who put him in a bonfire. 

“But look how you care about John Watson… Your damsel in distress,” Magnussen was narrating over the footage of Sherlock dragging him out of the fire. It was an interesting theory, granted, but John knew better. He knew Sherlock for real.

———

Three days. Three days since Sherlock had climbed into bed with John and not one word about it. Not even a look or a covert wink. Nothing. John wished he could say that he was jaded enough to have seen it coming. That it wasn’t a surprise. But, despite everything, he still expected more. He still held onto the hope that Sherlock would be there when he woke up in the morning with a smile and a kiss.

It was his own fault. Sherlock had said it time and again - he was a sociopath, caring was not an advantage, blah blah blah. But he had seen him care. He had felt his tenderness, late at night, under the duvet.

Honestly, John was just tired and disappointed and miserable.

———

“Oh, _Christ_ , Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s arms raised, he turned to address John. “Give my love to Mary. Tell her she’s safe now.”

John couldn’t believe what had just happened. Sherlock had murdered Magnussen in front of Mycroft and his men and John couldn’t do anything to take it back or keep him safe or make sense of it. His vision was blurring. _Give my love to Mary. Tell her she’s safe now._ He felt as though he might pass out. _Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Fuck._

———

John woke up to the rustling of his duvet, surprised that he didn’t hear the door open or Sherlock come in. 

He turned to Sherlock and just looked at him, waiting. Sherlock waited, too. It was usually John who made the first move after Sherlock climbed into his bed. 

John was desperate to kiss him, but all he could think was, _Why is my bed always so much colder when he leaves it than before he gets in?_ and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. 

Sherlock reached his hand out to pull John towards him, but John grasped it before he could, pulling their joined hands towards his chest.

“What are we doing, Sherlock?” he said his courage coming from his detachment. “What are you doing?”

“John…”

“No.”

Sherlock’s face followed the natural progression of shocked - pained - heartbroken - and finally settled on carefully constructed neutrality. He averted his eyes, looking as though he might say something for a few seconds, and then got up and left.

John pulled the duvet over his face, his heart beating hard and quick as he breathed in the hint of Sherlock that would be gone by morning.

———

Moving back in with Mary was the most difficult part. Even though Sherlock was being sent away, the plan was still to remain intact, with the (arguably) more annoying Holmes brother keeping John informed of any developments.

Sleeping next to Mary again reminded John of the nights he spent in his bed alone in 221B after Sherlock “died”. By day, John pretended to be alive, faking smiles and answering questions he barely even heard and by night, he lay awake, listening to Mary’s breathing, wishing he could just fall asleep and wake up the next morning in a completely different situation or body or life.

———

Pretending was the status quo. John turning Sherlock away did nothing to make either of them more communicative. Sherlock acted as though nothing happened, so John followed his lead. Their company lapsed between comfortable and awkward all the time, but John reckoned it was better than living in a different place. 221B was his home. Had been since the day he set foot in it. He was sure they’d eventually just forget about the whole thing and become nothing more than friends again. If Sherlock couldn’t offer John anything more, he couldn’t do anything about it.

———

“Actually, I can’t think of a single thing to say,” John said, hoping Sherlock could break the ice. It felt like a goodbye, and John knew that it was.

“No, neither can I.” Sherlock looked down, his face as despondent as John felt.

“The game is over.” John meant it as a question. _Is this it? Is this all there is, Sherlock? Tell me the truth this time._

“The game is never over, John. But there may be some new players now. It’s okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind. This terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth… That was generally me…”

“Nice!”

“He was a rubbish big brother.”

The small talk was wearing thin. John had to face it. He had to ask.

“So what about you, then? Where are you actually going now?”

“Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe.”

“For how long?” John asked, knowing the answer. The true one.

Sherlock wouldn’t look him in the eye. “Six months, my brother estimates. He’s never wrong.”

“And then what?”

“Who knows,” Sherlock shrugged, and John knew that he was telling the truth. He wished it was another trick or lie or long con, but it wasn’t. Not this time. _Deep breaths. Deep breaths._

“John, there’s something I should say. I’ve meant to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”

John’s heart began racing. Would this be the moment? The one where Sherlock finally reciprocated? Laid his own heart bare, as John had done before he fell from Bart’s rooftop?

“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

John exhaled a chuckle and Sherlock smiled and it was clear that wasn’t the thing either of them wanted to come out of Sherlock’s mouth, but there it was. 

“It’s not,” John smiled.

“It was worth a try.”

“We’re not naming our daughter after you.”

“I think it could work,” Sherlock said, looking at John with a million things they’d never be able to do or say again.

Taking off his glove, Sherlock reached for John’s hand. “To the very best of times, John.”

And after everything that they had been through, why wouldn’t it end with an insignificant handshake?

John felt as though his vision was clouding over while Sherlock boarded the little plane. He almost wished he would pass out - anything to make the external congruent with his internal distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're a fan of angst, you can take this as the ending. If you would like a side of comfort with that hurt, there will be two more chapters. All comments, kudos, criticisms and [follows](http://lizlemo.tumblr.com) are appreciated.


	9. Chapter 9

A week had passed since Sherlock's plane had turned around on the tarmac. John hadn’t heard much from him, but he was on his way to Baker Street to find out if he could help with Moriarty's supposed return in any way. For the first time in ages, John didn't really feel like seeing Sherlock. Love is funny that way. You can adore a person with all that you are and not really like them sometimes. And, after everything that Sherlock ensured that they went through, John felt righteous in his dislike. Lying, using, self-centered - all qualities that John might have disliked Sherlock for, but, if he was completely honest with himself (and he was allowing himself to be more of that since he found out about Mary), the true reason for his feelings was his hurt. Hurt that Sherlock didn't seem to reciprocate his love. That his pining was never-ending. That, even on the tarmac, while awaiting an exile from which he would probably never return, Sherlock still couldn't find it in him to tell John that he loved him, even if it was a lie. _Lie to me, Sherlock. Lie to me if the truth isn't the one I want to hear._ Not even then.

As he walked the last few steps up to 221B, John wondered why he even bothered. _Because you love him. Because you would do anything for him, even if it means hurting yourself. Even if it means compromising your own sanity. You'd take a knife and carve your own heart out if he asked you to. That's what fools in love do._

John let himself in and took the stairs slowly, preparing himself. He was expecting to see a few things when he opened the door: Sherlock on the sofa, mind palace mode engaged; or Sherlock on his chair, his hands steepled under his chin, thoughtful as ever; or Sherlock playing his violin, not turning around when John entered, preferring not to let a piece go unfinished. What he didn't expect was to be greeted by a wrecked-looking Sherlock in the entrance to the sitting room before he even had a chance to turn the doorknob for himself. What he definitely didn't expect was for Sherlock to waver slightly and then pull John's face towards his, as though John was oxygen. And kiss him. With a passion he hadn't really felt from Sherlock before. He expected many things above that. But that's what happened.

John felt the desperation and pain in Sherlock's kiss, and he was sure he was probably communicating the same sentiment in return. A couple of minutes passed before John came to his senses and pulled away, aware of where they were and what they were doing. Sherlock was breathing hard and shallow, and he averted his eyes to the floor, running his hand through his hair. As ever, John was perfectly still where his friend was chaos.

“Sorry. I… Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled, fingers still in his hair.

“For what?” John pushed him.

Sherlock exhaled hard and shrugged, throwing his hands up. 

John was tired and run down and scared. He felt as though his life was enough of a mess that he didn’t really have anything to lose.

“Sherlock. Why don’t you say what you mean for a change, hmm?” John’s voice was low with anger.

Taken aback, Sherlock’s head whipped up and he glared at John. He soon narrowed his eyes, venom on his tongue. “Say what I mean? Like you do, John?”

“How dare you. How _dare you_ ,” John thrust his index finger towards Sherlock’s chest, feeling justified in his rage. He started walking away, his fury forcing him to _move,_ and turned back, clenching and unclenching his fists. “All I ever did was try to tell you the truth and look where it got me!”

“Oh, please! ‘I find it difficult, this sort of stuff’. Ring any bells?”

“Jesus! Wasn’t I the one who told you how I felt? Hmm? I know you’d rather not remember that, Sherlock, but since we’re playing ‘remember the line’, how about that one? The one where I told you that I loved you and you jumped to your death and left me alone for two years?”

John was shaking. He couldn’t seem to control his breathing, so he went to sit on the couch and put his head between his legs. _Deep breaths, Watson. You were a soldier._

“John…” Sherlock started, but John just shook his head _no_. 

He walked over to where John was sitting and kneeled in front of him, trying to coax him out of it.

“John. I realise. I know how it may have seemed…”

“‘May have seemed’? I was broken, Sherlock. What you did. Yeah, it broke me.” John looked up, fixing his glare on his friend. “How could you do that? How could you be so. So cruel, Sherlock?”

Sherlock redirected his eyes to John’s knees, clearly struggling. “Because I knew that I had to leave you. There wasn’t any other way. I knew that I had to go and if I said it back… Even though I felt it, if I said it back, it would have been even worse. I didn’t know if I would make it back. Honestly, I didn’t. I… I couldn’t… Believe me…” 

By this point, Sherlock was clearly holding back tears, and John felt awful. More than anything, he just wanted to reassure his friend - to hold him or comfort him. But he couldn’t.

“You never said anything. Even when you came back,” John said matter-of-factly.

“I was afraid. I thought that what we had was just… physical to you. A passing distraction. And when I came back, there was Mary.”

“If you had… If you’d have just told me. Just once, Sherlock…” Now it was John’s turn to control his tear ducts. 

“I know, John. I know that now. And I’m sorry. Please. Forgive me.”

John didn’t know what to say. Sherlock was outright telling him that he felt the same way, but John couldn’t believe it. Not after everything that had happened. Not after the tarmac, especially.

“You thought you were going to Eastern Europe and never coming back. You didn’t think to say it then? Didn’t think to put me out of my fucking misery?”

“I thought… Perhaps I was mistaken but… I gave you everything I could. I tried…”

John didn’t know what to say, so he kept quiet, mulling over Sherlock’s words. _I gave you everything I could_. _So did I, Sherlock._

“I. Hmm. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but it isn’t enough. Wasn’t enough.” John stood up, ready to leave. His heart was beating in his ears and he felt as though he was in a dream, like his own emotions were foreign and unimportant. 

“Please, John…”

John turned around. And in that moment, he saw Sherlock. Really _saw_ him properly. He wasn’t a machine or a sociopath or even a man above emotion. He was broken, too. As much as John was broken, he was broken. _Everything I could_ may not have been enough for John, but it was all Sherlock was capable of. God knows John wasn’t capable of that much more.

Sighing, he went to kneel beside Sherlock and took one of his hands in both of his own.

“What are we going to do?” he said softly and Sherlock shook his head. 

John leaned forward and pressed his forehead against his friend’s.


	10. Chapter 10

Just breathing his air in was enough for John. Just being in front of him, foreheads pressed together, listening to the dull drone of cars and people and nature coming from so far away because the moment is the only thing that is relevant.

“I really _am_ sorry, John. I… I didn’t think…” Sherlock was bumbling, his eyes becoming wetter by the syllable.

John shushed him gently and ran his fingers over his cheekbone, moving to cradle the back of his head. “We’re here now,” he said softly and they both moved forward, their lips meeting tentatively.

It was slow and sweet - like before - until John felt one of Sherlock’s tears hitting his top lip, at which point it turned desperate, all the longing and pain being released into the moment. Sherlock’s arms were around John, and John’s around Sherlock’s, and John thought about how it felt as though all his cells were collecting and connecting again, how he was becoming whole and _present._ Like drawing the blinds and turning on the light, both at once.

“It’s okay. It’s really going to be okay,” John found himself saying, and he believed it, too.

At that, Sherlock allowed his tears to run freely. John looked at him, his beautiful eyes glossy with unassuredness. 

“It’s okay,” he repeated and wiped Sherlock’s cheeks dry with his hands, kissing the skin his fingertips had just touched until he was just kissing him all over his face - his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, and then his mouth. His alluring, maddening, soft mouth.

“I love you,” Sherlock sobbed between pecks. “I do. I do.”

John smiled softly and took Sherlock’s hand, pulling him to his feet and down the corridor, bringing his knuckles up for a kiss every few steps. They had never shared Sherlock’s bed before, but, somehow, it was the right thing to do. No more dark, late visits. No more keeping quiet. The sunlight was illuminating the floorboards from the sheer under-curtains and, yes, it was the right thing.

Without hesitation or teasing, John unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, taking a moment to breathe in his smooth, creamy chest and stomach before taking it off all the way. Next off were his trousers and pants and socks and soon, John was standing in awe of the body he hadn’t ever really had the opportunity to fully take in before. 

“Amazing,” he commented, and the corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up slightly.

“Now you.”

John undressed quickly, desperate to feel skin on skin.

Sherlock pulled John onto his bed, eagerness coming through, and John complied, taking a moment to hold Sherlock’s face in his hands and just _look_ , before sliding their bodies together, the friction making them both groan.

The sincerity was alarming at times, Sherlock whispering, “I love you,” and, “forgive me,” as John filled him up, something they hadn’t done before, and John murmuring, “I’ve got you,” and, “I’ve always loved you,” until their climaxes permitted no more speech.

———

_You can’t fall in love with him._

That’s one of the first things he tells himself every morning. Has done since he moved in with Sherlock six years ago. It works the same now as it did then - barely.

Only now, it’s fine. It’s all fine. They spent the previous afternoon and evening expressing their love, forgiving each other and fixing every hurt with few words, as was their way, and a restored, candid intimacy.

John opens his eyes and, instead of the suffocating make-believe, the rush to convince himself that everything will be fine if he just accepts his life the way it is, exemplary or not, he is aware of the chirping birds, how annoying they are; aware of his heart, how full it feels; and, most importantly, fully aware of the heavy frame encircling his, how perfect it is.

There is still a lot to figure out but, going forward, they can do that all together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all the comments, kudos and [follows](http://johnwatso.tumblr.com).


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